Breathe Again
by cultureandseptember
Summary: Arthur Kirkland could barely breathe during the Industrial Revoltion. The dream of progress continues into modern day. [Mixture of character study and historical allusions. Gen.]


**Breathe Again**

 **By: cultureandseptember**

* * *

 _Arthur Kirkland could barely breathe during the Industrial Revolution. A mixture of a character study, and a smattering of historical accuracy. [I am actually so giddy over this.]_

* * *

The rain was soft, a smattering of light droplets on lashes. Smoke and fog lay heavily over the city, dusting about the housetops. The towering smokestacks stabbed into the curtain overhead, black with oil and death. He could barely see through the gloom of it, the smell of the machines permanently cut into his nose and throat. Black streams poured through the fog, constant conquests. All around, the buildings were coated with smoke. It was as if they had been built with soot bricks. Rare pockets of fresh air were a relief to his heavy lungs as he strode his way up the narrow cobbled street, right hand customarily folded behind his back as his cane clacked to the stones in his pace. Up ahead, the clock struck noon. The once powerful sound of the bell was strangled by the constant hum of the industry around him. He would be lying if he said that the sound of the bell did not frighten him. He remembered such a different sound. It was as if the smoke was choking everything, and everyone.

"Arthur!"

Stopping momentary at the corner, he noted a figure emerging from the fog. A dirtied face and a flash of curly red hair matted to a specked forehead—William, he realized after a moment of panic. For a moment, he had feared his rather impetuous brother had come again for another go. "You're looking peakish, sir. You off to the mill?" Arthur settled for a smile, watching as the man brushed off his jacket to no avail. "You coming to the fight tonight?"

"No, I am not." He had rather had his days of dogfights and bare-knuckle brawls a century ago. His pirate days were long behind him, for better or worse. With the ever-stifling air around him, settling in his lungs like stones, he wondered if he should take to the sea again for a time. He knew he never could. 'It's a revolution,' they told him. 'You will be the best, the most successful of them. You must stay.' He did as he was bid, but the price was starting to become more and more clear. "I hope you're not fighting, William. You're barely recovered from your last go."

The man's eyes widened in exaggerated surprise and he laughed loudly, brushing his hand over his thick beard. One of his hands flatted his curls over his forehead for the third time in so many minutes. "You remember that, sir? I hope I didn't lose you a bet. There was some money on that fight, as I recall."

"I am not much of a gambler, but I do hope you've been mindful of your rib?" He began walking again, the mill-worker fell into step beside him. He remembered, too, when he used to walk in the same manner— with a certain confidence and looseness in his steps. Often, that gait had been somewhat influenced by rum and gin, but that was hardly something he would readily confess. "Don't think I didn't notice the cut to your forehead, William. I'm not so unobservant." He kept his tone neutral, because he was nothing more than a consultant and hardly held any real authority. Still, the man's steps faltered and he laughed again. That laugh was both disturbing in its familiarity, and comforting.

"Accident," he said after a moment. "Got a little over ambitious. Won't happen again. All it took was a good pint and a stitch or two." Most likely, one of the gamblers had taken out their frustration on the too-kind, too good-hearted losing fighter. Arthur gritted his teeth, but said nothing as they continued toward the mill. He would hardly be late if his pace slowed into a meander. William was breathing harder than normal. "Smoke's gotten worse, hasn't it? Rain isn't helping." Arthur grunted in agreement. Although he was certainly a gentleman, there were times when it was difficult to maintain the class-face that was pressed upon him. "The weather's gonna turn."

He was likely right. There was a cutting chill in the air, pushing itself under the smoke. That coolness almost seemed to make the air heavier. "Are you prepared for the winter?" It was a conversational question, but one asked out of concern. There was little he could do for his people at the moment. Almost all resources were being pulled into the conquest for industry, and it was eating away at everything like corrosion. The other Nations felt it as well, he knew. The push for smoke-filled skies and steeled prosperity was choking, like a rope around a neck. For better or worse of it. "Your children, are they—"

"Louisa died in June. Fever."

Arthur felt himself slow to a stop, hiding the shaking of his hands by grasping them behind his back. The cane hit his calf and momentarily distracted him from the harsh blow of what William had said. Even after all these years, thousands now, he could never seem to— His chin rose and he looked over at his countryman. It took every amount of strength in him to keep his quivering hand from pressing down the tophat a little further onto his head. A nervous habit. "I am very sorry, William." What else could he say? That his children shouldn't be dying in such numbers? In such ways? That he wished for the ocean breeze again? That this was painful and the pain never seemed to have an end—that the searing ache in his chest never seemed to stop. "I am very sorry."

"She…" The man's head shook and he stood in silence for a moment, staring off at the billowing clouds of smoke from the mill's smokestacks. "She always liked you, sir, whenever you came by our home. She said you were a prince." A smirk pricked at the corner of the man's chapped lips and his thick eyebrows rose. Arthur just looked into the midday fog, not quite trusting his composure. "My Little Louisa quite fancied you. Saw what the rest of us see, I would bet a week's earnings." He clicked his tongue and jerked his head toward the mill. "A good man." He grasped Arthur's shoulder and grinned, the weight of it falling heavy on aching bones. Arthur felt older than ever. "She went quickly, and we take that as a blessing."

Upon arriving at the mill, William gave a firm nod of farewell and disappeared into one of the brick buildings at the front of the complex. A final flash of red hair, then Arthur found himself alone in the yard. He knew his way around this mill well-enough, but he would have expected the courtesy of a guide. Any good businessman knew better than to allow investors to make their own way beyond the gates. He is free hand moved to grasp the collar of his coat, a habit of his old pirate days. He stopped in the middle of the muddy yard, observing the roaring racket that echoed all around him and feeling the burn in his lungs.

"Kirkland! It's about time you made it, old chap!" Turning, Arthur felt a grin pull at his lips despite the scalding of his throat. Isambard was getting on in his years, but that did nothing to dislodge the cigar from his teeth or the confident stride of his boots in the mud. His worn tophat did nothing to improve his height, but Arthur had never seen a short man in all his years of knowing Brunel. He saw certainty, and the presence of it was enough to sooth his worries for only a few moments. "You're looking as young as ever. What _is_ your secret?" Arthur did not bother to withhold his snort. "Whatever crème you use, we should have to get Russell ten bottles."

"Don't let John hear you say that," Arthur cautioned as he fell into step beside the man. He gestured a bit toward the occasional flicker of sparks under closed mill doors. "He'll make you into iron."

"I am already iron, Kirkland." He side-eyed the young blond man, and Arthur grimaced in return. For nearly fifteen years, he had been rather good friends with Brunel and he was never one to hold peace with his thoughts. "You don't look well, old friend. You're pale." Arthur quickened his pace and held open the door for the older gentleman, trying not to roll his eyes when the man stopped short of the door. He squared his shoulders and broadened his stance, taking the cigar from his teeth. "Stubborn as always, Arthur. I thought you would have gotten some rest by now. I'll work out the particulars, you know that. I won't let this movement fail." Arthur leveled him a dull stare and then, seeing the determination for an answer, sighed. "Now then, care to explain?"

"Inside, please. I can only breathe this air for so much longer." Giving the young man an once-over glance, Isambard shrugged his shoulders and stepped through the door and into the sanctuary of the office building. "You are incredibly persistent. Do not take that as a compliment, and stop smiling like that." Stepping into the side office, Arthur set his cane against the wall and took the hat from his head, mussing up the soot-darkened hair underneath with an ungloved hand. His overcoat was dampened, so he set himself free of it as well. Isambard was follow much the same ritual behind his desk. "I've told you of my pains, Brunel. It's nothing new and nothing for you to concern yourself over."

"Firstly, I would rather call my persistence something more along the lines of 'resolve.'" Arthur snorted dirisively and shook his head, moving toward one of the leather wingbacks in front of the desk. "Secondly, you likened those pains to growth pains, am I correct? You seem to be in more pain than usual." The man propped the cigar between the two forefingers of his right hand and fell into the seat. He gestured with the laden hand, smirking a bit. "Growth pains? From industry? Is that common for one of your nature?"

"Quite honestly, I am not sure." Arthur watched as the man's eyebrows rose in question. He could imagine that the engineer's mind was hard at work, faced with a new unanswered question. The amount of questions he had fielded over the past ten years was more than enough for a lifetime. "I have told no one else of this. I fear they would overreact. It's not internal conflict. I know that pain well enough. I've never felt this before." He had an inkling though, a guess as to what the cause was, but he didn't dare speak it. Especially not to Isambard.

The man eyed him critically, as if running through a checklist or collecting some sort of data for analysis. Then, with a great sigh, he sat back and propped his cigar back in his mouth. The huffed laugh that escaped him set Arthur's teeth on edge. He'd never liked that laugh. "Well then, I am certainly not a doctor."

"Yes, I well guessed that."

"However, your breathing has changed. It's labored." A self-satisfied smile settled onto the man's face. As if he had figured out some great puzzle. Arthur had to laugh a bit at that. It never seemed to take much for Brunel to figure him out. Much faster than most humans, certainly. "Explain it to me, Arthur. I rather like it when you explain things."

"No one else will humor me," Arthur responded dully. God save the Queen, but she would not humor his need for the fresh air of the sea. "My lungs are burning. Every breath I take feels as if hot metal is being poured into my chest, and knives cut at my throat." He looked back at the human, the engineer to whom he had entrusted so much. One of the few humans he'd ever trusted enough to befriend; one who he knew would not last much longer in the sweep of years. "My eyes are constantly on fire. The smoke is blinding me." He knew the cause. He was far from a fool, though other Nations seemed to occasionally (and wrongfully) assume otherwise. It was not cholera, though the royal doctors liked to assume that epidemic to be the cause. No, it was something else. From the narrowing of Brunel's eyes, he knew the man had it figured.

"Industry has made its impact known, has it?"

Arthur had to smirk—the tone of Brunel's voice was a mixture of pride and wariness. Just as he expected. He felt much the same, pride at what he had done and what his people had accomplished. It was another method of throwing the world into chaos, from trade to industry. And the world was scrambling to keep pace. They would forever be scrambling to keep up with him, if he had anything to say about it. He liked to see them looking up at him with barely concealed rage and envy. He liked the feeling it gave him to inspire such jealousy. The outside world could look in and see a gentleman adorned in the finest suits money could buy, see his people working relentlessly and showing such ingenuity that it put all other Nations to shame.

Yet at the same time, he could not deny the fear that curdled in his chest. Young children were dying at unprecedented rates: in the gears of massive machines and in the deep-dug holes of mine shafts. His people were growing disfigured with the weights pressed upon them by the bigger cities. Smoke choked and strangled and cut— He wondered if sunlight would ever feel quite the same. He wondered if the magic of his old lands still lingered somewhere in the untouched wilderness. Some part of him wondered, feared, that those times were lost forever to machinery and mud. The spray of the sea, and the warmth of the sun on his cheeks and shoulders, would he ever feel it again?

"You're not pleased with your trinkets, Arthur? Proud of them? We are the foremost name in a movement that will change the world as we know it." Arthur did not move and kept his steady gaze on the engineer who had instigated so much change already. "I do not think we can even dream of the consequences our actions now will have upon the generations of the future. You will live to see it. Perhaps one day you will look back and wish that this had not happened. Perhaps, you will be proud."

Arthur—the embodiment of all that was England—said nothing in return for a long time. He merely stared at the man, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He could not imagine any further advancements. Already so much had changed; things that he could not have even dreamed when he was a child. It was a fantasy and a nightmare, all wrapped into smoke and sparks. The smell of the cigar caught his attention and he refocused. "What more can I expect?"

Isambard grinned around his piece, eyes alighting with something Arthur recognized. Defiance. "How about a ship?" England felt himself sit forward on the chair, caught in the pull of the unspoken idea. "How much would you like to sail again, Arthur?" More than anything, he would dare say. The older gentleman sat back and raised his chin. He cautiously glanced toward the closed door. "I'll build you a ship then. The greatest ship the world has ever known—iron, with the ability to cross the Atlantic." A smile pulled at Arthur's lips. Brunel preened with confidence, eyes alight with that same determination again. "Would you breathe better with the sea air, my friend?"

He would. Heaven knew he would. To move so drastically from the ocean to the land, from the fields to the cities, all in the span of a short century…Part of him craved the freedom he once knew, the open ocean and the helm at his fingertips. And Isambard was promising him this. Then, a cold and coal-flavored reality made him grimace. His head shook, and he refused to look toward the engineer. He'd see a much different image if he did. "It's impossible, Brunel. The _Great Western—"_

"Another ship," his friend interrupted. He stuck his cigar in his teeth again and pushed himself up from his chair. Out of habit and protocol, Arthur stood as well. He pursed his lips at the look on Isambard's face. "Another ship, Arthur. Iron-hulled, so great that you will remember long after I have passed and the smoke has faded." England stood in stunned silence, not daring to hope for such a thing. Nevermind his seafaring heart's desire for the spray of waves. "Your industry—the smoke you have endured, the pains of expansion, the soot in your lungs—all of it will be the rivets for another, newer pursuit. Far grander than what I can build you." The man paced toward the lead window, peering out into the low-hanging fog. "It'll be a damn fine day when you're able to breathe again, Arthur. When all of Great Britain may breathe again. A damn fine day."

Arthur felt somewhat hopeful at the idea of it, nostalgic. For the time-being, he knew it was nothing but a soot-covered dream. As smoke, he could never seem to catch it.

* * *

The night was a great one, a proud one. One that he would remember for a millennia to come, though the men that surrounded him could never know such. Among these many thousand, he was just a number. Not one knew what he was, and that in itself was comforting—especially in the warmth and study of that evening. All eyes were on him, in many respects. All eyes were on London. In the crowd of eighty-thousand, his fellow Nations were mixed in throughout. Alfred and Matthew, and Francis, Ludwig and Gilbert. Past enemies and current friends alike, all gathered to watch his performance. None knew of his role in the ceremony. Most had assumed he would stay with the Queen and her grandchildren in the box, but…Arthur could never stand being so constrained. So, here he stood with his citizens, sweat pressed down his brows. Nervous? No, Arthur was not nervous. The right corner of his lips quirked up as the children sang.

He strode forward with the men, dawning his old suit and tophat for the first time in nearly one hundred years—perhaps longer. He'd pricked many a finger on the damnable thing, mending it himself with needle and thread. He strode to stand before the grass-covered hill, many thousands and millions watching. Throughout the days of practice, he'd shown the fellow volunteers various mannerisms of Victorian era men, hands behind the back and on the jacket collar—his own habits, his own tilt of the chin. Arthur had cited research, and had smirked with personal experience. He'd gotten a good laugh out of it.

England stood taller, hand grasping his collar and his free hand (once so used to an ivory cane), held firmly behind his back. It was easy to fall back into the habits. The actor portraying Isambard, long lost to time and his ever-present cigars, was a good likeness, if one had never seen the rough engineer in-person. Effort was made, but Arthur smiled slightly in knowledge that Brunel would likely never recite Shakespeare without dismantling it line for line to figure out how it worked.

 _Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,_ _  
The clouds methought would open and show riches  
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,  
I cried to dream again._

Music swelled, and there was a flash—perhaps a memory of a ghost. Brunel looking over the marvel of engineering his people had accomplished, eighty thousand in one large house. Four thousand over water was once a dream, but now? Arthur continued to stare forward as the great tree rose from the ground, drumbeats swelling and people screaming as men marched from the earth, from the mountains, from the fields. He saw a flash of red hair and a thick beard walking past him with a crooked grin. Arthur raised his chin, withheld a smile, and began to walk, shaking the hands of his fellow actors in his stride of the Victorian upper class. The drum beat was incredibly powerful, almost pulling the air from his lungs.

Every face, darkened with mud and soot and coal, was like an enlivened memory of that time. His lungs no longer burned as they once did, and the scars had long-since faded. Now, that time—those hundred or so years of pushing and breathing and fires—was being communicated to the world in a way that his words never could. Alfred had never understood. Matthew, the others. Never once had they understood. Never listened. The towers rose, the men and women toiled. Once, children would have been pulling the cranks and slipping into the small spaces. He leaned back to observe the rise of a nearby tower, holding to his top-hat.

A familiar sensation of wonder.

The smoke, and the fog.

The drums and the constant clank of machinery.

With the world watching, these years and years later, he almost felt nostalgic for the smoke. As the trumpets and fifes and chanting continued, as his people continued to work, as the ring was forged. As the steam rose from the 'forged' ring. As a caricature of his good friend walked among the people, right past him. Arthur found himself feeling as if he were long in a dream. The climax built, piling chants and drums and strings atop each other. He followed his marks, striding toward the green-covered hill again, where 'Brunel' stood.

With a proud smile, he looked at the man and did not see the actor. He saw the same man who had promised him the fresh ocean air and the dream of something beyond the foundry. As he passed, he rested a heavy hand on Brunel's shoulder. Before his eyes, the image faded and Branagh's eyes flickered up to the assembling rings. Arthur turned at his mark, just behind the actor and he watched, following the choreography with unparalleled precision, actions one-hundred years engrained.

 _"It'll be a damn fine day when you're able to breathe again, Arthur. A damn fine day."_

Even as the smoke and heat reminded him of those choking days, Arthur stopped his mechanical movements and took a small step forward, green eyes alight as he stood angled behind the after-image of his good friend—looking up into the sky as the ring rose higher and higher and higher. As that ring jointed the others of its kind. He wondered vaguely, if his fellow Nations understood. Taking a deep breath, he felt such a pull of pride that he could barely keep himself standing under the weight of it. He adjusted his stance to be wider and he kept his eyes up.

As the rings lit in a shower of sparks- like raindrops of light and energy- and the smoke was painted blue with lights, Arthur numbly took the hat from his head with a shaking hand and rested it over his heart. He could have never dreamt of this in those darkened years, in those smoke-filled nights. In the showers of sparks and the constant pain. His lungs were aching now, a familiar burn in his throat as he swallowed. Smiling, he stood a little straighter. He could have never dreamt of this.


End file.
